


Preserving Resources

by clarkeneedsbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:30:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkeneedsbellamy/pseuds/clarkeneedsbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re lucky we’re short on shirts, Princess, or I’d have torn yours in half by now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preserving Resources

Her voice teases at his ear, softer than it needs to be.  Bellamy could point this out.  Right now, with one hand yanking at the hem of Clarke’s shirt and the other clenching fingerprints against her right hip, he's not about to bother.

Sure, they don’t need to be quiet.  Sure, half the camp knows just how many nights their resident healer spends in his tent.  Either way, it’s sure as hell not anyone’s business.  (He could add that even the more oblivious wouldn’t blink at any noise coming from his tent, particularly at this point in the night, but he suspects the reminder might result in her lips lifted from his skin and his hands lowered from hers).

At the moment, his palms are wrenching their way beneath her shirt; they form fists around her ribcage at the thought of stopping.

On the Ark – hell, even through their first days on the ground – Clarke Griffin had seemed like something out of one fairytales he’d flat out refused to read as a child.  All simpering princesses, bland princes, and perfect morals.  As fake as the Ark’s artificial sugar.  Books of history, with their grit and blood and truth, those owned him from the start.  Fairytales were as ethereal as their damsels.  History, he felt like he could touch.

Plump lips close around the tip of his ear, sharp teeth tempting its edge in a slow pull.

Clarke.  Simpering.  It had been such an easy assumption.  He has no idea when it became so fucking laughable.

_“Bellamy…”_

He grins against the tangled gold of her hair.  Princess or not, she’s as ill-suited for whining around a tower as they come.  

Finally pulling her grass-stained shirt over her head, Bellamy discards it without a glance and pins Clarke down against the makeshift bed of his tent.

His mouth finds her collarbone, searing and biting and lapping at its length.  “You’re lucky we’re short on shirts, Princess,” lips rising slightly from her skin, he heaves the words out in a bid for breath, “or I’d have torn yours in half by now.”

“Is that supposed to sound sexy?”

His lips only curve further against her neck in answer.  The grin remains as he works his way lower.  Then lower.  (Her fingers clench crescents between his shoulder blades.)  Then lower still.  His hands follow, moving down from her hair to tease and twist and soothe at her skin until she forgets to mute her moans altogether.  Her grip tightens, her nails nearly wreaking surgery against the folds of his back, before shuddering loose.

Bellamy brushes his mouth against the flat span of her stomach. It’s too flat, really (no one here is as full as they should be), but he swallows his frown into openmouthed kisses against her hips.  Clarke’s grip returns with a vengeance barely a second later, her fingers rooting themselves deep into his hair, guiding his ear back against her breath.

“So that’s why you couldn’t keep a shirt on when we landed.”  She kneads at his scalp, fingertips keeping a steady pace through his dark waves. “Preserving resources?”

“Just looking out for our people.”  He molds the words against the slope of her shoulder.

“Right.”  He doesn’t have to see her face to know she just fought a snort.  “Do you remember—” The throaty whisper that rubs against the hollow of his ear, however, makes him blink.  “–the shower limits the Ark enforced to ‘preserve resources’?”  Clarke traces her tongue against his temple before dragging it down towards his ears once more.

He blinks again –  _now, she's talking about this_ now– but still jerks a nod against her chest as his fingers return to working at its curve.

“Well, if we had showers here,” her lips tug at his earlobe in a toothless bite, “it would only be ‘preserving resources’ to share.”

His breath climbing the length of her throat, Bellamy pauses to catch her skin with his teeth.

“But it wouldn’t work.  Because I would end up taking the hottest,  _longest_ shower possible.  Longer than the Ark would ever have allowed.  I would scrub every square inch of my body clean, and then – then, I’d start on yours.”

He bites down hard on her neck, tightening his hold on her.  A sharp intake of breath shudders from Clarke’s throat. 

Her voice returns with a slight crack.  “I’d start with your shoulders.” Still kneading his skin, she trails her fingers down from his scalp to illustrate her point. “Then your arms.  But I’d really just be waiting to get to your back.”

“My back, huh?”

Clarke ignores him.  “Because your back,” her hands fall towards his ribs, forcing themselves back between the ground and his shoulder blades, “your back is always so  _tense_.”  She soothes her fingertips against one of the countless knots waiting to prove her point.  A deep groan etching itself against his throat, Bellamy lifts himself from the ground and pulls her into his lap, leaving her chest without a flicker of space to call its own.  Her chest heaves against his with every inhaled and exhaled breath.  “And I would work at every single knot.  But I don’t think my hands would be enough.”  Clarke ghosts her mouth against the curve of his back.  “I think I’d have to try with my mouth too – move it against every ridge and plain and bone.”

Her fingertips move faster and harder with each word before gradually drifting lower.  “Can you guess where I’d go next?” 

She drags her hands past the lines of his hips.

“ _Fuck_ , Clarke…”

“Your legs,” she says abruptly.  “I think I’d wash your legs.”

Bellamy’s hands form manacles around her waist.  “And then?”

“Your ankles.”

Squirming against him, Clarke lifts herself from his lap and leans down to press her lips against his thighs.  “I’d have to get on my knees to do those, of course.  But I think I’d stay there.  I’d stay there and raise my mouth and…"

The words taper into soft, blurred murmurs as her lips climb the slant of his left leg, reaching higher and higher, then higher still – breath warm, her tongue darts against him.

“ _Fucking hell…”_ Bellamy abandons her waist to tangle his fists among her hair.

*

Later, as the sky looms darker and the moon shines brighter, Bellamy pulls Clarke against his side, taking his time before releasing her mouth from his.

His tone is half-brisk when he speaks.  “I’m planning a scouting mission for tomorrow.” 

Bellamy can feel her brow creasing against his chest as her muscles pull themselves back together. 

“To the lake,” he continues. “If you need any more seaweed.”

She breathes a laugh against his chest.  “The lake, huh?”

“For seaweed.”

“For seaweed.”  Pulling herself up to raise an eyebrow at him, Clarke grins.  “So I should probably see if Monty wants to come.  He is the most helpful he is with herbs and medicine...”

Bellamy’s eyebrows rise in turn.  “He won’t be if I have to blind him.”

Clarke only barely manages to temper the smile from her mouth.  “And why would you have to do that?  Since we’re just collecting seaweed.”

Catching her lips with his, he prods the smile to their curve.  “Preserving resources, Princess.”

 


End file.
